


Touch of Gray

by Vagrant_Blvrd



Series: Crinkle Dot [9]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- GTA V, Fake AH Crew, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 06:17:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20943707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagrant_Blvrd/pseuds/Vagrant_Blvrd
Summary: Its probably not a good sign that Michael’s gotten used to being approached by people in parking garages.





	Touch of Gray

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for Anon who asked for Crinkle Dot with Michael getting kidnapped (again) based on a line from [Small Hours of the Night.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18383714): 
> 
> _Today it was Trevor, but they all know there will be a day when Michael’s on his own when someone decides they want to hurt the big bad Vagabond where it’ll do the most damage._

Its probably not a good sign that Michael’s gotten used to being approached by people in parking garages.

Just.

An in general sort of thing, because he lives in Los Santos and all kinds of fuckery goes on in places like that. Especially this late at night, and okay, okay, okay, maybe Ryan’s right about Michael being a dumbass.

Because he hears the guy walking up to him, hears him stop a few feet away. Hard-soled shoes clip-clopping on the hard cement like that, of course he does.

But because he’s Michael and coming off working a double shift, he doesn’t pay all that much attention to it. (He does, just not the right kind. Preoccupied with this he needs to do because he has a date later, so you know.)

Hears the guy clear his throat, something aggressive to it that pings Michael's radar too late, but it’s really the part that follows after that makes him realize he should have been more alert.

The whole, _“Hey, pal,”_ and _“You Michael Jones?”_ and _“Rudy sends his regards,”_ which.

First of all, Michael has no goddamn clue who the hell Rudy is, so there’s that.

Second of all, talk about being dramatic as hell, and also a great way to preface sucker punching someone when they turn around to ask you what the fuck you want.

No matter how many times Ryan or the others drag him down to the gym to teach him how to defend himself, he won’t be fast enough to react when someone blindsides him like that. A for effort on their parts and all that shit, but Michael's only human and there’s that whole dumbass thing too, so. 

Yeah.

Michael sees a meaty fist coming straight at him before pain explodes in his face and he drops like a ragdoll.

========

He wakes up who knows how many hours later tied up like a damsel in distress in those movies his mom denies she watches. All melodrama and other movie clichés as far as the eye could see.

Big Vinewood hero, dashing and brave and his spunky sidekick. Gorgeous love interest who was all fired up with determination to stand toe-to-toe with every asshole she came across until it came time for the villain to get one over on the hero, and then everything fell apart.

_“Guilty pleasures,”_ she’d tell him, embarrassed as hell and only half serious with her threats. _“If I find out you’re telling people I watch them you’re grounded, you little shit.”_

Michael looks around, tries to figure out where he’s been taken this time.

“Look at me now, ma,” he mutters, “just like your movies.”

He’s in a bland little room that’s gone neglected for who knows how long. Peeling paint and the smell of mildew and wood rot. Water stains in the ceiling and garbage and whatever else piled in the corners. Old furniture like you’d find in a typical office building that’s a few years out of date and seen some hard times.

Nothing new there, nothing to give away a particular area in Los Santos.

The train whistle he hears in the distance is a little more helpful, but doesn’t help him pin the place down.

So, yeah.

Not great.

His head hurts like hell and he can feel dried blood flaking away under his node, down his lips and chin. His nose doesn’t feel broken, which is always nice. 

Aside from a few aches and pains nothing else does either.

Whoever sucker punched him in the garage isn’t around to ask questions, and there’s no sign of anyone else.

Either they’re went to the trouble of grabbing him just to let him rot here where no one’s supposed to find him, or they’re letting him stew.

“No one has any goddamned imagination with this shit,” Michael says, annoyance rising because fucking seriously.

He’s been grabbed a few times before this. Assholes who think he’ll roll over for them, hand them everything they want in exchange for letting him go like that’s what they have planned.

Like he’s just that stupid.

Sure, he’s not thrilled about the part that comes after being grabbed, the whole tough guy act these kind of assholes put on. 

Smile at him like it’s just business kid, you know how it is, right? And then the ugly shit starts, a punch here, another one there. Things to soften him up and get him talking, babbling for them to _stop, he’ll talk, he’ll talk_, only Michael doesn’t play along. 

Doesn’t follow the script like they expect him to.

So they bring out their shiny little knives and flashy guns. Get in his face and ask him if he’s sure he wants to keep the Fake AH Crew’s secrets. Doesn’t he know he’s just another tool to them? Convenient little asset and all that, but c’mon kid, you’re smarter than that, aren’t you?

All that fancy education to get where you are in life, and you’re gonna throw it away on scumbags like them?

He’s heard variations on that since the wrong people found out about him from an ally of the Fakes with loose lips and no goddamn common sense to speak of. Idiot kid who should have known better, but you know. _Idiot kid_.

Last Michael heard, he’s off somewhere the Roosters can keep an eye on him. Far away from Ryan and the others who hold grudges like nobody’s business. (Got this sideways look from Geoff and Burnie who was visiting at the time. Both of them probably thinking Michael’s a bigger idiot than expected, but whatever. The crew’s always telling him they owe him, and it was a small enough favor.)

Got a broken nose out of it before Michael managed to get everyone calmed down. Drew attention to the fact he was kind of bleeding a little, and oh, hey, anyone want to return the favor of stitching him back together for fuck’s sake, or did he have to do it himself?

(He kind of did, though. Ryan all wound up and freaked out as Michael told him what to do like the big doof hadn’t been - badly – stitching himself back together for years.)

Michael sighs because he hates this part. Boring as fuck and wasting his time.

“Goddammit,” Michael sighs, because Ryan’s going to be a goddamn pain about this.

(Michael’s got a thing about being punctual, and the fact he’s late for their date will be a source of grief for him.)

========

It takes a couple of hours before this Rudy asshole shows his face.

Beanpole of a guy with beady little eyes and something about him that makes Michael think about snakes. (Might be the way he puts emphasis on his sibilants, the way Jeremy does sometimes when he’s fucking around in a death match back at the penthouse.)

Ridiculously into his bad guy cliches from the way he circles around Michael to clasping his hands behind his back once he’s standing in front of Michael.

Pair of enforcers flanking the door because assholes like him can’t _not_ with the intimidation tactics.

“So,” he says – hisses? - giving Michael a once-over. “You’re this Michael Jones I’ve heard so much about.”

Michael doesn’t know what the fuck is going on here, but sure. 

Why not.

“I mean,” Michael says, because he’s an idiot and hanging around the Fakes has just brought that out in him even more. “It’s a pretty common name when you think about it.”

Might as well cal himself John Smith, the amount of people who go around with the same name.

Rudy’s one of those people who doesn’t seem to find that amusing, and Michael knows it’s going to be a long night because he goes straight into douchebag mode.

Raises his hand like an asshole and snaps his fingers, eyes on Michael the whole time as one of the bruisers leaves his station by the door and steps forward. (Cracks his knuckles like you see in the movies, all intimidation factor and unbelievably assholish.)

Rudy smiles, mean edge to it.

“I get it now,” he says, turning to leave. “You’re just like them.”

Michael rolls his eyes because no, he’s really not.

Well.

He didn’t used to be anyway. Had common sense they didn’t, but the fuckers have been chipping away at that until he ends up in situations like this and making all the wrong choices.

He looks to the bruiser who’s looking at Michael with his head cocked like he can see all his weak points.

“Can we just get this over with?” Michael asks. “Places to be and all that.”

The bruiser smirks like a man who loves his job and yeah, yeah. 

Long goddamned night ahead of him.

========

When the bruiser’s done with their first session, Michael’s nose is broken and he’s has a loose tooth. Maybe more than one, it’s hard to keep track.

He hurts like fuck and there’s this leaky pipe at the back of the room that’s driving him nuts.

Rudy’s staring him down, this bland little smile on his face.

“It doesn’t have to be this way, you know,” he says. Just a businessman looking out for his own interests, nothing personal to any of this. “Tell me what I want to know, and we’ll send you on your way.”

Michael stares at him because it’s the usual load of horseshit guys like him peddle. Empty promises with threats of violence behind them and honestly? 

Michael’s tired of it.

“Alright,” he says, licks blood off his lips, cracks his neck because he has to look up at the asshole ad his bruisers and it’s putting a crick in his neck. “You want me to talk? I’ll talk.”

He has a lot of grievances against the Fake AH Crew with all the shit they put him through on a regular basis. Just one thing after another with those assholes.

Michael starts out with something that’s been bugging him for a long goddamn time.

“Who the fuck decides to call themselves Rimmy Tim? Like fucking really. Did the asshole just have a bunch of kids write-in suggestions he picked out of a hat or something?”

Speaking of.

“What the fuck is up with the cowboy hat?”

The color scheme, okay, yeah. Michael gets that because Jeremy’s a disaster, so why not pick the worst color combination he could, but the _cowboy hat?_

Michael bites back a laugh at the way Rudy’s expression goes from smug satisfaction to something approaching apoplectic rage. Tiny bit of disbelief, like most people in Michael’s situation aren’t this stupid.

Asshole uncoils, sneer on his face like this isn’t something he usually does himself but he’ll make an exception for Michael.

Backhands him, heavy rings on his fingers leaving a cut behind, blood spilling down Michael’s cheek as his head snaps to the side.

“You might want to rethink your position, Jones,” he says, sharp and clear, no extra emphasis on the sibilants this time. 

Michael shakes his head, and looks back at good old Rudy. Sees the anger in his eyes, blood he’s shaking off his hand.

“Yeah?” Michael asks. Cocks his head as he hears noise outside the room they’ve got him in. Sounds a little like unexpected trouble coming Rudy’s way, what with the yelling. Sees Rudy straighten up, head turning towards the noise as it draws closer. “I could say the same for you, asshole.”

Rudy snarls, mouth opening to snap out orders to his bruisers but it’s too little too late as someone kicks the door open.

Smoke rushing in and sight of fire behind the figure in the doorway.

Dramatic bastard in his leather jacket and ridiculous mask.

Also, you know. 

Mini-gun.

Rudy takes a step back, closer to Michael, and the Vagabond aims the mini-gun at him.

Just that. 

Aims that monster of a gun at Rudy and lets him think things over. No rush, the Vagabond’s got plenty of time now that he’s here. Wouldn’t want to pressure Rudy or anything like that.

There’s this moment where Rudy glances over at Michael like he’s weighing the odds of him getting close enough to use Michael as a bargaining chip – but he’s one of the smarter ones. Gives up that line of thinking as he raises his hands and turns back to face the Vagabond.

The bruisers follow his lead, hands in the air as a familiar figure ducks around the Vagabond and plucks the guns out of the bruiser’s shoulder holsters. Ejects the magazines and tosses them in a corner of the room. Goes on to pat them down for any hidden weapons that end up in in the same corner, but he pockets their wallets with a little smirk.

Moves over to Rudy who is visibly seething, and flashes him this bright little grin. Pats his cheek before giving him the same treatment. (Shoots Michael a look, eyes narrowing as he spots the cut on Michael’s cheek and slips Rudy’s rings off his fingers.)

Rudy and his bruisers are glaring at Gavin, but Michael’s attention is on the Vagabond standing so very, very still, mini-gun humming away.

“Well, don’t you look a sight,” Gavin murmurs, hand on Michael’s shoulder as he slips around behind him to cut through the ropes tying him to the chair. 

Rough stuff, Michael’s wrists rubbed raw from trying to get out of them earlier with no luck.

Michael snorts, lets Gavin help him to his feet. Hand on his elbow as he leads him towards the door. Michael digs his heels in when they draw even with the Vagabond. (Asshole doesn’t acknowledge them, focus on Rudy and his bruisers.)

“I’m okay,” Michael says, just loud enough for the idiot. “I’m _fine_.”

Little bit battered, bruised, but nothing he won’t heal from.

“Michael,” Gavin says, tugging on his elbow. 

Michael sighs and lets Gavin escort him out of the building.

They pass by Jeremy and members of B-Team along the way having what looks like a pointed discussion with the handful of Rudy’s people still standing. (Offering them a choice.)

Michael pulls back against Gavin’s hold when he hears the first gunshots, scowls when the assholes tightens it for a moment before his hand drops away. 

Gavin sighs.

“It’s not just about you,” he says quietly. “If bastards like him think they can get away with something like this, it’ll mean trouble for the crew.”

Michael knows that. 

Knew that when he considered the risks involved in pursuing a relationship with Ryan. Sat down and thought about it, news on in the background and all the shit he saw on the job. Thought about everything he’d heard about the Fake AH Crew after moving to Los Santos, the shit they got up to. (Enemies they’d made and the ones they’ll make because they’re all idiots.)

Some days all that knowing hits harder than others, has a more direct impact.

“Come on,” Gavin says, walking ahead. “Let’s get you back to the penthouse where we can get you taken care of.”

========

The Vagabond shows up at the penthouse about an hour later.

Knocks on the door to Ryan’s suite and doesn’t let himself in afterwards, so Michael has to open it for him.

He’s still wearing the mask, but something about the way he’s standing makes it seem less like an intimidation tactic and more like something to hide behind. (Or maybe Michael’s full of bullshit.)

“Hey,” Michael says, stepping back to let him in. 

He gets a grunt by way of greeting and a whiff of smoke as the Vagabond walks past. (Burning building with a touch of cigarette smoke tossed in.)

Watches the asshole look around like he’s expecting trouble, and sighs. (Long night for everyone.)

“I could use some help,” he says, brushes his fingers under the cut on his face. “Can’t get the fucking things on right.”

Always easier to for him when he’s treating someone else than himself and all that.

Michael had help resetting his nose because that’s always a bitch to do yourself, but insisted he could handle the rest. Minor stuff, just needed to clean up and slap a few band-aids on and call it a day. 

No going back to his own place until the Fakes decide it’s safe, and this is as good as anywhere they’d let him go off after tonight. (Ryan’s place would have been a nice second-best, but he knows they want to keep him close until they shake off the what could have beens.)

Took the time to grab a quick shower, change out of his uniform and into a spare set of clothes he keeps here. Was just trying to decide where to start when he heard the knock at the door.

The Vagabond stares at him like he’s having trouble understanding him, so Michael walks over. Gives him this look, and cocks his head.

“You going to take that thing off?” he asks, and waits to see if the Vagabond’s done for the night or if he’s going to be sticking around for a while yet.

Hard to tell with him sometimes, you know? Guy’s got a lot of shit packed away in that head of his and this thing with Michael just adds to it some days. (Ones like this.)

The Vagabond keeps staring at him and Michael shrugs. Goes back to the bathroom to path himself up and breathes easier when he hears a tired sigh behind him. (Squeak of leather and this quiet noise of something landing on the coffee table.)

He’s sorting through Ryan’s first-aide kit when he hears shuffling footsteps, looks up to see another reflection in the mirror over his shoulder.

No face paint tonight, like he couldn’t be bothered with it. (Intricate design like that? Takes time to get it right.)

“You’re running low on a few things,” Michael says, which is ridiculous.

The Fakes have all that shit tucked away on one of the lower floors and Trevor making sure they stay stocked up because God knows they need it, the trouble they get into all the damn time.

There’s a little stare down until the idiot standing behind him sighs again, shaky little thing.

“I’m alright,” Michael says, because he is.

Going to hurt for a while maybe, but it could have been worse. (Might be, someday with his luck, but he’s going to think about that right now with the way the idiot’s looking at him.)

“You look like shit,” and it’s not so much the Vagabond telling Michael that as it’s someone closer to being Ryan.

Not quite there yet, but he’s losing that hard look in his eyes. The tension(guilt) he’s carrying around on his shoulders like it’s something that’s gonna bring him low one of these days.

“Yeah, well,” Michael says, and shrugs. “Shitty genetics.”

_Another_ sigh with all this exasperation to it, and there Ryan is. Buried under a shitload of issues and misplaced guilt, regret, who even knows anymore.

“Michael - “

Michael's real stupid these days. Somehow got into a relationship with an idiot in the weirdest fucking way, got all tangled up with the group of misfits he calls a crew. (Sounds more like family when he says it though, has all those complicated feelings behind it.)

Forgets to be smart about things sometimes, and it gets him in trouble all over the place.

“Doesn’t look like it’ll leave a scar,” Michael says, studying his reflection. “Kind of sucks, guy at work keeps telling me chicks dig ‘em.”

The cut’s not that deep, more of a scratch. Looked worse than it is, all that blood and the general situation. All it needs is a butterfly band-aid or two and it’ll heal just fine. 

Looking up at the idiot’s reflection, he can’t help but smile a little at the way his eyes narrow just the tiniest bit. (Knows Michael’s fucking with him and trying not to take the bait.)

Michael’s also more of an asshole these days. Must be the company he’s keeping.

“Is that so,” Michael hears, bit of strain to it. 

Too soon, maybe, to be making light of things, but what else is he supposed to do with an idiot who insists on blaming himself for every shitty thing to happen to Michael like he’s got sole rights to it.

Michael’s the one who fucked up, let his guard down. Ryan’s just...fuck, who knows.

Maybe it _is_ his fault people are looking at Michael like he’s an easy target, way to get at the Fakes. Maybe it would have happened anyway after Michael landed himself in Phil’s old spot looking after these assholes. Maybe things could have gone another way and Michael would have gotten suckered into helping some other bastard bleeding all over his stuff who’d leave Michael to fend for himself when trouble came calling.

Ryan’s going to want to talk about it, like he think he’s making a logical point about Michael being safer if he had nothing to do with the crew. (With _him_.)

Worried about the shit he puts Michael through. Shit he’s forced to deal with, know about, because it’s not like Ryan and the others hold down normal jobs. No ignoring what they do. Things they’ve done and things they’ll do. (Forgets no one has clean hands here in Los Santos, though.)

And then, because Michael's not a moron, he’ll to tell Ryan to go fuck himself if he thinks that’s the right answer to things in any world. Cat’s out of the bag on that one anyway, and even if he agreed with Ryan, went along with that stupidity, it wouldn’t magically fix things. 

Assholes like Rudy would still target Michael because they’d know he’s still a link to the crew. Someone to be used against them still and making Ryan and Michael miserable for no goddamned reason. (They’ve been over this before, and _yet_.)

It’s late though, and they’ve had a long, shitty day. Michael would rather save the arguing for later, when he has the energy to tell Ryan all the ways he’s wrong and hopefully – maybe – have some of it stick in that thick skull of his.

So.

Michael shrugs and picks up one of the butterfly bandages, waves it at the idiot behind him who sighs _again_ before taking it.

Small steps with this one, but worth it.

========

“What are we doing right now?”

Kind of a dumb question because there’s a really terrible movie playing on the television. Awful special effects with some poor bastard in a rubber monster suit terrorizing college co-eds.

Empty takeout containers on the coffee table and a bowl of popcorn and drinks for the two of them. 

Comfortable couch and Ryan a decent stand-in for a pillow. (Ryan’s still a little shaky, mindset taking time to tick over, but Michael’s working on it.)

“Well,” Michael says, feeling comfortably fuzzy. “I kind of had a date tonight.”

Not quite dinner and a movie level thing because they’re boring as fuck when it comes to this shit, but he was promised enchiladas and that’s got to mean something.

“But then a thing came up,” Michael says, still running his mouth. “And I missed it.”

Ryan makes this little noise in the back of his throat, hums to himself. (Knows better than to bring up his stupid argument tonight because Michael’s not having it.)

“And then,” Michael goes on, rambling like an idiot. “I remembered you love to bitch about the science in these movies, so I figured it would be better than an IOU or something.”

Michael may be more than a little comfortably fuzzy, but what the hell right? 

Ryan’s making this other noise now, body shaking with it. Michael’s no expert, be he’s thinking the asshole’s laughing at him.

Quiet little wheezing thing, with _IOU_ mixed in, along with _what the hell does that even mean?_ and _Jesus Christ_.

It. Yeah. Fuck if Michael knows.

“Shut the fuck up,” he hisses as the scene on the television switches to what’s supposed to be a high-tech lab for a corrupt corporation hoping to sell their abomination to the military for a shit-ton of money. All shiny and white and cliché as hell. “We’re getting to the first exposition dump.”

Ryan wheezes one last time before he quiets down, and Michael grins to himself as he feels the idiot getting more and more indignant about the blatant science bullshit the actors are spewing.

“Oh my God,” Ryan bursts out, sounding more himself than he has all night. “I don’t - _No._ That’s not how that works!”

Michael shoves a handful of popcorn in his mouth and smiles to himself because yes, okay. Terrible movies and bad science isn’t quite the way to Ryan’s heart, but damn if it doesn’t piss him off enough to forget to be an idiot for a bit.

“I don’t know,” Michael says. “Makes sense to me.”

Why not splice animal DNA together in ways that wouldn’t work in the real world to create the perfect killing machine? What could possibly go wrong?

Ryan’s glaring at him, has to be, because Michael loves to do this to him. Make him watch the worst movies and go along with the terrible science just to annoy the fuck out of him. 

It’s not the way he thought their night would go, but given the kind of city Los Santos is and their luck in general it’s a hell of a lot better than he expected and far more entertaining to boot.


End file.
